All Chickens Must Die: A Benjamin Wade Mystery Read Online Free PDF Page A

he’d book it. I slid a five-dollar
bill out and placed it on the table. “Look, I know this is going to be awkward,
but I need to have you go and pay for our lunch.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I want him watching you while I slip out the back. And
don’t stare at him. Act like you’ve not seen him.”
    Clara swallowed. She nodded and gathered her purse.
    “I’ll call you later.”
    A partial smile returned to her face. “You’re too kind, Mr. Wade.
I think the outlook on my fate just got better.”
    She rose, covering my view for a moment. When she breezed up to
the counter, I watched his gaze follow her. I slipped out of the booth and
backed into the kitchen.
    “Hey,” a man wearing a greasy apron said, “you’re not allowed
back here.”
    I doffed my hat and smiled. “Just trying to avoid a jealous
husband.” Mollified, the man pointed to the back door. I opened it, hurried
around the east side and peered around the corner. I saw the men standing in
line at the shoe shine and I watched as Clara exited the front door. Sure
enough, the man who had to be Peete followed her with his head. I crept up
close to him, avoiding the other passersby.
    His head did a double take back to the front door then to her
walking toward her car.
    “Right here,” I said.
    He whirled. I’ll admit I wasn’t ready for the swinging fist. His
right came at me high. I ducked, but the bulk of his hand got me behind the
ear. I saw stars and fell to one knee. Then I heard his footsteps hurry away.
    “You okay, mister?” A man helped me up.
    I shook my head to clear it. “Which way?”
    The Good Samaritan and others pointed to a fleeing man. He was
half a block away and seemed to be gaining speed. Even if I hadn’t been groggy,
I couldn’t run that fast.
    The shoe shine man gave me a look. “Shine your shoes, sir? They
got scuffed.”
    I looked down. So they did. I shrugged. “Might as well,” I
muttered to myself. “Now I have two cases.”

Chapter Six
     
    Even though I now had two cases, there was
still the matter of the burglary near Smith’s house. If there was anyone who
might have a line on the police activity that occurred the previous week, it
was my good friend Gordon Gardner. The man was an ace reporter for the Houston
Post-Dispatch who got his big break on the same case I got mine: the search
for Lillian Saxton’s brother and the papers he smuggled out of Germany last
month. I found the body. Gardner found the papers. He read them, but, under the
influence of the Army and his editor, agreed never to utter a word about what
he had read. Gardner kept to his word, even when he was writing at his big new
desk as payment from his editor for his silence. Hey, silence has a price,
right?
    I strolled into the news room. The smell of ink, cigarette smoke,
and coffee assaulted my nose. The click-clack of the typewriters made the room
sound more like a huge machine than a place where men formed thoughts and wrote
sentences. Perhaps it was only to keep pace with our rapidly moving world.
    A few of the reporters gave me waves or nods. I had known a few
of them from my time as a beat cop. Back then, we were on opposite sides and
the relationship was more antagonistic than necessary. Some of those reporters
had forgiven me. Others, not so much.
    I started walking to the far corner where Gardner’s big desk sat,
then halted. Another guy was in the seat. What was his name? Flynn, I think. He
looked up and our gazes met. He sneered. I rolled my eyes and tried to remember
where Gardner sat now that he was demoted down to the society page. He still averred
it was a demotion but he got to spend his working days with photographer Lucy
Barnes, a stunning example of womanhood.
    At the far corner, next to the window, sat Gardner. Stacks of
papers lined the perimeter of his desk. A small pile of cigarettes moldered in
the ashtray. The white coffee cup was stained inside and out. A cigarette hung
from his lips, unlit. Perhaps he was just too